


Whatever is Not Impossible

by beltainefaerie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bodyswap, Crime Scene, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, M/M, Magic, Murder, Rimming, Robbery, Virgin!Sherlock, beginning relationship, brief mention of cheating girlfriend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-18 22:12:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2363915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beltainefaerie/pseuds/beltainefaerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John get a little mixed up in the aftermath of a case and their lives will never be the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whatever is Not Impossible

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SherlockYouIdiot](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=SherlockYouIdiot).



> Thanks so much to the SHJW writers circle for beta reading! I had a lot of fun with this. For those of you who know my writing, I just had to post the adorably written dealbreakers: “If your heart moves you to create explicit materials, please pleasy please don’t include BDSM, bloodplay, tentacles, dubcon/noncon, and just generally anything of a violent nature. I’m basically a walking piece of fluff.”
> 
> So, I stretched myself and this is what I came up with. I hope everyone likes it and most especially sherlockyouidiot from Tumblr, who was my exchange match.

\---

Two nights ago, they had led Lestrade to the perpetrator of a series of high profile jewel thefts. 

Last night, they had celebrated in high spirits and John had even managed to get Sherlock out to their local. He only had a pint to John’s four, but he seemed to be having a good enough time. John couldn’t remember what they had been laughing about as they stepped out of the pub, but the streetlamp haloed Sherlock’s curls. John had reached out to run his fingers through them, and was just stretching up to finally do what should have been done a year ago when it hit them.

Coughing through a cloud of goodness knew what, John heard a woman yelling at them in a language he didn’t recognise. By the time the air had cleared, she was gone. 

“What rubbish,” Sherlock scoffed, brushing off his coat with utter disdain. “Apparently the burglar's aunt was far more interested in vengeance and blames us, not her nephew’s ill-timed and poorly covered up illegal pursuits, for his current incarceration. Irritating, but what could she possibly think that showering us with ash and feathers would do?”

This morning, John woke up in Sherlock’s bed. Startling, that. But, the git didn’t seem to be around anywhere. 

He blinked. He felt peculiar. John didn’t recall much about getting home last night. He only had four, which was hardly enough to keep him from getting upstairs. He remembered nearly kissing Sherlock. And then what happened? Everything was hazy after that.

He stumbled off to the en suite and promptly cried out. Well, screamed. Shrieked might have been more accurate, though John would have been loath to admit it. 

He was usually ready to handle anything, often with tact and aplomb, sometimes with a gun, or in one case a chair. Not usually with hysterics.

But what exactly was the proper reaction to seeing your flatmate’s reflection in the mirror? 

John was firstly quite startled to find Sherlock in the bathroom with him, screaming as his mind took a minute to catch up. Because this? This was utterly, completely impossible. 

He brought his hand slowly up to touch cheekbones, brush over his lips, making faces to see with certainty that he was in fact controlling Sherlock’s face.

\---

Sherlock awoke, which was odd in itself. his head was pounding and he couldn’t even fathom opening his eyes just yet. He shouldn’t have needed sleep so soon. Not that he minded particularly, it was just somewhat disconcerting, especially as he lacked all memory of coming to bed. 

He was hard. Tedious, but not entirely unexpected. John _had_ nearly kissed him last night before that wretched woman had ruined it. He wasn’t much in the habit of taking care of himself, as it were, but it sounded good and moreover, might even alleviate the headache.

Sherlock reached down, taking himself in hand. Did it always feel this good? His fingers slid the foreskin up and over the head.

But something was off...

For one thing, his fingers didn’t even brush, not able to wrap fully around his prick.

Sherlock’s eyes flew open, registering the military neatness of the room, the spartan furnishings. Utilitarian. 

_John’s room._

Sherlock sat up, cocking his head to the side as he tried to puzzle it out. He blinked, scrubbing his hand over his face, pulling back at the rough stubble. He ran his fingers through his hair, rougher than it should be, no trace of curl.

He threw back the covers, taking in his legs, feet, the softness of his belly, 

Hovering on the edge of his consciousness, trying to break through the fog of this headache, he saw all the pieces, but it couldn’t be. Still, all that he could see and feel told him that he was… John.

He was just beginning to debate how to discover if this was a particularly vivid dream or hallucination and, if it wasn’t, the moral ramifications of having that wank anyway.

Then someone began to scream.

\---

Sherlock rushed down the stairs, nearly tripping with the different proportion of John’s limbs. This felt more real than ever, as such details even _his_ mind was unlikely to provide in any dream state.

The screaming had stopped and there he saw himself making all sorts of faces in the mirror.  
“John?” he called out, and Sherlock watched his own body turn.

“You, I... we?” John stammered.

“It would seem so,” Sherlock answered, for the question was clear, if rather ill-formed. He smiled wryly as he watched his own face contort into John’s confounded expression. 

“Tea.” Sherlock said, looking slightly perplexed at his own suggestion. Calming, yet caffeinated, it wasn’t terrible as suggestions went, just not usually his first thought.

“Why aren’t you... I don’t know, more upset?” John inquired.

“Will becoming agitated help us resolve the predicament?”

“Well, no,” John admitted.

“Then I will continue to breathe calmly and try to think. In the meantime, tea?”

“Tea sounds fine, though, perhaps pants first?”

Sherlock looked down, suddenly chagrined. In his haste, he’d left John’s room without a stitch. 

John remained unphased. “My body. Not like it’s anything I haven’t seen before. Still, If Mrs. H comes up, I’d prefer to be clothed, yeah?”

Sherlock began to walk upstairs, but turned back to John, “You know, I was joking, but Christ, no wonder you walk like this."

John shook his head smirking slightly, at the insinuation and Sherlock’s rare cursing.

A few minutes later, Sherlock reemerged in John’s dressing gown and pyjama bottoms. 

John emerged from Sherlock’s room at the sound of footsteps. “You know, doctor or not, I’m dying for a fag. Tragically, I know where they’re hidden. I’d hate to break your streak, though. Going on five weeks, isn’t it?”

Sherlock curled John’s lips inward, pressing them into a tight line as he looked down, a bit sheepishly. “You wouldn’t be ruining anything. I’ve snuck at least one a week on the rooftop or fire escape. Better than I had been doing, though. That’s something.”

“Still worse for you than actually quitting, you git!” John huffed.

“Oh, don’t fuss.” Sherlock stalked over to John’s latest hiding place, in the cow skull. He had to stretch up on tiptoes to get them. How did John manage with such stature?

Sherlock tossed the pack,”For now, don’t whinge about it. Just enjoy that you can have one with a clear conscience!”

John fished the lighter out of the pack, put a cigarette between his lips and fumbled with the lighter a moment. “Why can’t I get this damn thing lit?”

“The other hand, John. You’re trying to use my left.”

So John smoked and Sherlock made tea. It would have looked almost normal to anyone watching, if they hadn’t seemed so on edge.

“Christ,” John stubbed out the cigarette on a plate. “I’m due at the clinic in twenty minutes!” He waved his hands gesturing to Sherlock’s body. “I can’t exactly go in like this!”

“I’m sure I can deduce whatever is wrong with them,” Sherlock said, handing John his mug.

“Sherlock, I am _not_ letting you practice medicine!” John shouted, adding in an undertone, “And the last thing anyone needs is for you to have access to my script pad.” He took a sip of tea, just as Sherlock did. Both winced and switched cups.

“We need to go down to the Yard.” 

“I am fairly certain that’s a terrible idea! Sherlock, look at us!”

“We just have to figure out what to do so they don’t catch on. We’re still us, even if a bit shifted about. I need to see about the aunt.”

“Throwing some soot and feathers while muttering is not a crime, Sherlock, and the Witchcraft Act was repealed in the 50’s, because everyone knows it’s rubbish!”

“Well, we clearly need to re-evaluate that assessment!” Sherlock snapped.

John heaved an exasperated sigh. “All I am saying is, we need to be careful. We’re going to get sectioned if we aren’t!”

\---

Sherlock called in sick to the clinic, inventing a terrible stomach flu, while John tried to get them in to see Jeffery on the supposed possibility of some connected robberies. It took some finagling, but Sherlock and John were allowed in to see the thief that afternoon.

When the guard ushered them into the visiting cell, Jeffrey called out, “Well, if it isn’t the famous Sherlock Holmes. Can’t say I thought to actually meet you.” 

“Jeffrey, we’re just here to ask you a few questions,” Sherlock said.

“Who the hell are you?”

“John Watson, my colleague,” John intervened smoothly, when Sherlock forgot that John really had to lead this discussion, currently being the recognisable one. “What can you tell me about your aunt?”

“Shit!” Jeffrey slammed a hand down on the table, cuffs making an echoey rattle in the visiting cell. “You pissed off Auntie?” He began to laugh,”What did she do?”

Sherlock did his best to describe the events of the previous evening. 

“How are you even sitting here? If she did what it sounds like, you should be half-dead by now.”

“What do you mean?” John inquired, looking rather alarmed.

“I’ve only seen her use that once before, with my step-dad. I don’t know what he did, but Auntie sent him halfway to the spirit world and he couldn’t get back. He was in a coma for years, man. I don’t remember how long it took before it set in. Half a day, maybe? He went to sleep and ain’t never woke up. You're so fucked.”

“It doesn't make any logical sense. An an old woman assaulted us with feathers. How did that accomplish anything?” Sherlock muttered.

“Oh, that attitude is going to get you nowhere, mister Watson.” He laughed, shaking his head. “I thought I was in for some shit after the robberies, but Auntie’s still got my back. Cool, man”

“No, it most decidedly isn't "cool." Now how do we undo it?” John blurted out.

“Undo it? You don’t. You’re just fucked.”

No answers there, they left. Sherlock began racking his brain for anything on the occult, any lead that might help. “How do _you_ find anything in here,” he growled, fisting his fingers in John’s short hair with frustration. 

Leaving the building, they decided to take the tube, rather than waste the expense of the cab. 

They were settled in a somewhat crowded car when Sherlock began, more loudly than John would have wished, “John, how do you even deal with this?” He gestured to his lap.

Sherlock’s face somehow contorted into John’s confused expression, brow furrowing. “What? What do you mean?” he asked.

“I mean I have never had to deal with…”

“Erections?” John whispered. “Neither do I, honestly. Not unexpectedly at any rate. You just learn to think of something else and it doesn’t happen.”

“But why am I mesmerized by the swaying of her breasts, John? I don’t care a whit about them, but your prick certainly does!”

“Sherlock, keep your voice down!” Ignoring the few shocked looks in their direction, John found Sherlock’s exasperation comical. John tried not to laugh, shaking his head instead.“You’ll figure it out, Sherlock. You’re the genius, right?”

\---

Thankfully after that, the trip home was rather uneventful. Now that they had her name from the trip to the yard this morning, Valerie was easy enough to research. In a matter of minutes, they had her address and her employer, but considering her mood when last they met, Sherlock hoped they could find the solution less directly. They had met Jeffrey's mother when he was arrested and she had been livid with her son. Far more likely to help, that was, if she believed them. 

The arrived again on the doorstep of her townhouse. She answered immediately and invited them in.

“So sorry to bother you, we just had a few questions,” Sherlock said solicitously

“Of course. I’d be happy to help. Six months isn’t bad for what he did. JT should be grateful. I didn’t raise him to get mixed up in stuff like this. But I have to say, I am a bit confused to see you two again.”

“We’re actually not here about Jeffrey today. We need to ask you a few questions about your sister, Valerie.” Sherlock said, taking a sip of tea. 

Her eyes widened. “She didn’t go through with it, did she? And if you are here, it must have hit someone else. Oh, God. What did Val do?”

“Do I detect you know something about it then? Her…” John trailed off searching for the right word. powers? magic? spells? curses? What wasn’t going to get him sectioned?

“Her gifts. Yes, I know. Most people don’t believe it, but I know what she can do.”

Her eyes narrowed as she looked from one to the other. “Wait a moment. You’re awfully talkative today, aren’t you?” she addressed John’s form. “You were the quiet one the other day. And you,” She rounded on the curly haired detective, “You aren’t actually Sherlock Holmes. Not anymore. You were close when my sister laid the curse. Touching somehow.” They nodded, though it wasn’t quite a question. “You didn’t end up in limbo, just switched places. “

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Yes, well, can you help? Jeffrey said that it was permanent. That nothing could undo it.”

She laughed, “Oh, she can undo it. Will she? That’s the question. Of course JT wouldn't tell _you_ that, even if he knew. You landed him in jail!”

“But there _is_ a way!” John pressed on urgently.

She smiled. “If you get back in her good graces, yes.”

“Any suggestions on that front?”

“Short of letting Jeffrey out?”

“That really isn’t our purview. Once someone is processed, there is very little we can do,” Sherlock said, apologetically.

“Then I guess you better think of something spectacular.”

\---

John was famished, having discovered without a doubt that Sherlock’s lack of appetite was purely a matter of control, not biology. Control John didn’t care to share. So it was agreed that John could stop for lunch (or breakfast, really as he hadn’t eaten all day), while Sherlock went off to do a bit of research. His challenge was going to come in separating the real from the ridiculous. Especially since it all previously landed in the “complete and utter rubbish” category. 

Neither of them would have believed it if they weren’t living it.

After Sherlock left, John headed off for a cafe. It was just a couple blocks away. He didn’t go there often, but they had the best Full English and served it all day. He could pick up a couple scones to perhaps entice Sherlock to eat. _His_ body wasn’t used to that kind of deprivation.

He spotted her the moment he arrived. Shawna sitting in the corner of the cafe. And she wasn’t alone. That little smile, that particular head tilt. Sherlock had tried to warn him that she was a serial cheater, but did he listen? When they got up and kissed goodbye, there was nothing for it. He had to confront her. 

When the bloke was gone, he stepped in front of her. “I saw you with that bloke back there. You’re cheating. You’re cheating on m… John,” he caught himself at the last moment.

She smiled at Sherlock, in a pitying sort of way. “Do you think he’ll believe you this time? He didn’t before. He won’t now.” She took a step closer, practically in his face. “You know, he thinks you hate me? That you are just trying to get rid of me? I know the truth, though, Sherlock dear. You want him. You’ve already got a monopoly on his time, his attention, but it’s not enough. It will never be enough. You want all of him. If you could, you’d devour him until there was nothing left. So go ahead. Deduce whatever you’d like.” She smiled vindictively, declaring, “He isn’t fucking gay! Tell him I cheated. Lay out every detail you think you know, and see what he tells you. He’ll shout at you, apologize to me with some _fantastic_ sex, and things will go back to normal.” 

Shawna waltzed out, leaving a stunned John blinking through Sherlock’s eyes.

_Fucking hell_

He ordered and tucked in perfunctorily. He was aware that it tasted good, but his mind was too busy to care. 

He nearly forgot the scones, having to backtrack for them. Still took less time with Sherlock’s longer legs and he had to laugh at that.

He didn’t want Sherlock to be right, but he wasn’t surprised. Not really. If anything, he was mad at himself for not ending things sooner. Of course, he had to face that alcohol didn’t excuse his behaviour either. He _had_ been about to kiss Sherlock. Sod it all. He should have known Shawna wouldn’t last. They never did. 

And he was beginning to realize why.  
\---

Sherlock sat at the kitchen table, fiddling with the dials on his microscope, when John came in. 

“You were right about Shawna”

“Of course I was.” Sherlock said matter-of-factly, not even looking up from his experiment. If he had, he would have seen John’s tight smile, the fist clenching. 

John flicked the switch on the kettle and clattered about with dishes. He set the plate of scones at Sherlock’s right.

“Any luck with the research?”

“Nothing of any real-”

“Christ!” John exclaimed, tea splattering his trousers as his favorite mug shattered on the floor. “How do you function at all with these, these paws!”

“If it is any consolation, I have no idea how these stubby little fingers manipulate anything at all.”

John laughed. How the insult was supposed to be consoling, he could barely see. But it almost was. He shook his head, chuckling at the absurdity of it all as he found the dust pan, bending over to sweep up the shattered mug debris.

Sherlock looked up and laughed too, but stopped abruptly. “Now, really, John! There aren’t even any ladies present! Nothing is going on that is remotely… and there’s no one except… oh. Oh!” John’s face smoothed into Sherlock’s perfect epiphany mask as Sherlock asked, “Really?”

Bringing a blush to Sherlock’s cheeks, John couldn’t help but laugh harder. “No point in denying that now, is there? Seriously, though, look at you!”

“But you always said, you’re not-”

“And you are quite married to your work, yeah?” John binned the ceramic debris. “I thought there was some strange narcissism going on when you rushed down here starkers to see what was going on this morning. But apparently we are both more interested than we let on.”

John crossed to Sherlock, trying not to flinch at the strangeness of cupping his own face in Sherlock’s hands. He bent down and pressed their lips together. Softly at first. Almost hesitant. 

But he needn’t have worried. The kiss was returned, fully, Sherlock reaching up to tangle a hand in the curls at the base of his neck. What little experience Sherlock had told him that was always good. 

John moaned into their kiss. It was wonderful, if a bit strange. He felt like he was back to that puppy stage of adolescence, still getting used to where limbs are and how everyone fits together. In his own body, John was compact and efficient, knowing exactly how to move. This was different, so very different, but wonderful. 

Sherlock pulled back a moment. “I haven’t. I mean I...I don’t...”

John stroked his face. “We don’t have to do anything, Sherlock. Not if you don’t want. And I would want your first time to be...”

“If you say special, John, I am pushing you right off my lap.”

“I was going to say in your own body, you git.”

They laughed into the next kiss until they were breathless and giddy.

“Bedroom?” Sherlock breathed. “I’m told there are plenty of other things we can do, though I fear I deleted all research. Show me?”

And if John nearly tripped over his feet getting there, Sherlock wasn’t about to say a word.

\---

Greg stopped by that night. 

“To what do we owe this pleasure, Inspector?” Sherlock purred, utterly forgetting for a moment that Lestrade was seeing John. 

Greg narrowed his eyes at John. Something was clearly off. “Sherlock wasn’t answering his texts! Had to stop by and make sure he hadn’t blown up the flat or eaten one of his experiments or somesuch.”

“Sorry, Greg. Got a bit distracted. The phone was out of reach,” John said.

Lestrade startled a bit. “I’m sorry? Did you actually call me ‘Greg’?’”

“Well, that is your name.” John shot him a perplexed look for a moment.

Greg looked nearly insulted. “You haven’t gotten that right once in 7 years!”

“Well, he had to get lucky sometime,” Sherlock muttered, shooting a lopsided grin at John.

Greg shook his head. “Well, at any rate, there is a case I would really like your help with. Can you come?”

Sherlock smirked slightly, but refrained from making quips. 

“Tell us on the way,” John said. They didn’t usually accept the ride with Lestrade, but John was quite certain if they had a cab to themselves, he’s just start snogging Sherlock again. Not good for working. 

They had most of the salient details by the time they arrived at Marylebone station. Male. Mid-fifties. Found dead in a compartment at this stop.

"Well _John_ , you've been studying my methods. What do you think?" John said pointedly. It wasn’t like he popped into Sherlock’s body and suddenly had mastered deduction. The medical signs were perfectly visible, but they didn’t need to know that he was strangled. The ligature marks were clear as day. Anyone could see that. They needed Sherlock Holmes to see how he had been strangled on a packed subway with no witnesses.

Sherlock feined John’s perplexed look and John had to stifle a laugh.

Sherlock bent low, checking the eyes, the ligature marks. “Definitely strangulation, antemortem and likely cause of death.” He stood up, pacing away to retrieve a pair of sunglasses. They were broken as if trod upon. He studied them a moment.

“I would warrant that he has been dead for hours. Long enough for rigor mortis to set in, making it easy to stand him up. He was wearing these sunglasses, to prevent people from seeing the lifeless eyes. His wrist was tied to the handhold and when the train stopped suddenly he lurched too hard, snapping the string and throwing him to the floor.”

“Brilliant.” John breathed, forgetting to be Sherlock for a moment.

Lestrade squeezed the bridge of his nose. “Oi, opposite day for you fellas? More than fair bit creepy, that. But everything with that fits, John. But who killed him?”

“For that you’ll have to find the actual crime scene,” Sherlock appeared to chime in. At least that deduction John could make.

“Or you could just review the surveillance footage.” Sherlock actually threw in with a smug grin.

“Well, if you wanted no challenge whatsoever,” John muttered and threw himself into a seat with all the Sherlock-in-a-sulk grace he could muster. 

\---

“That was a nightmare. We could really have bollocksed that up entirely,” John grumbled.

“But we didn’t,” Sherlock countered

“But we could have,” John practically shouted. “I know, I know. The Work doesn’t stop. The Work comes first. It always has. But if they decide we need to be sectioned, there _is no more work_. And I can’t keep calling in sick. We have to sort this!”

“Well, if you hadn’t seduced me this afternoon, perhaps I would have thought of something!”

“If I...I! That wasn’t all on me, you know.” John stammered.

“Certainly not,” Sherlock smirked and pulled him close. “Nor did I mind. Wouldn’t trade one moment actually. But we will sort it. We’ll have to.” He kissed John, then, the sensation becoming less strange and more lovely now that they were getting used to their unique situation. 

Just then Mrs. Hudson bustled in. “I thought I heard you boys come in. Sherlock dear,” she said, turning to John, narrowing her eyes slightly then turning actually to Sherlock before handing a sheaf of letters over, “These came for you in the mail.“ She turned and patted Sherlock’s cheek, ”John, what have you boys gotten yourselves into?”

“How can you… how do…” John tried to ask, but couldn’t quite form the thoughts.

“Well, you’re obviously not yourselves,” she said, chuckling at her own joke. “I have seen a great many things in my time. Growing up, my friend’s grandmother was a true healer. An older lady down the street worked true love spells. And of course, Mrs. Turner.”

“Mrs Turner?” John said, incredulously, trying to imagine that old lady with her cats muttering over herbs.

“Of course, dear. I told you from the start, we have all kinds round here.”

“Why haven’t you ever mentioned this before?” Sherlock snapped in exasperation.

Mrs. Hudson chuckled, “Yes, I think that would have gone over smartly with a doctor and a scientist. You know quite well you’d have thought I was getting a bit soft.”

“But could she help?” Sherlock inquired.

“This evening,” Mrs. Hudson mulled it over a moment, "I’m afraid she’s having dinner with her son. Why don’t I bake a batch of that shortbread she likes and by the time it’s done we’ll go see, hmm?”

So it was agreed.

\---

Mrs. Turner saw them immediately, ushering them in and offering them tea. She fussed over the cookies. “Your Mrs. Hudson here is a deft hand at baking. Never could get the hang of it myself. Luckily for you,” she said, pausing to look John and Sherlock over. ”I have other gifts.”

She questioned them at some length about anything they remembered from that night, at last coming to a conclusion. “I can’t know for certain what she worked. Not only are there numerous traditions, but we are like cooks somewhat, developing our own ‘recipes,’ if you will. However, this has always worked for me to get people back where they belong, no matter the mishap. I’ll be just a minute.”

She bustled off, gathering various herbs and oils, grinding with mortar and pestle, humming to herself. Difficult to say whether the tune was part of the working or merely the woman being happy in her element.

She returned in but a few minutes, with a wooden bowl. The mixture smelled rather strong, but not entirely unpleasant. Just rather floral.

She nudged John from her overstuffed couch, “Up you get. From there you’d have the same trouble. Your thigh was brushing his.” John stood. She dipped her thumb in the oily mixture and anointed John’s forehead in some complex pattern he couldn’t quite track, then did the same to Sherlock. 

“For this to work you must absolutely not touch from now until morning. Go to sleep and when you wake, all will be restored.”

“That’s it?” Sherlock inquired.

“Simple as that,” she smiled with a little nod of her head. 

“No incantations?”

“Just the right ingredients and intentions, dear. Now off with you. I look forward to seeing you both tomorrow.

They thanked her profusely for her time and effort and agreed that they would pop round tomorrow so she could check them over.

\---

They had only walked the short distance back to 221. They made their goodbyes to Mrs. Hudson and ascended the stairs. 

John flipped on the telly and made tea while Sherlock lounged in his chair, trying to process the events of the last 24 hours. It felt like much, much longer than that. When John brought over a mug, they managed to hand it off without brushing fingers, but it was a near thing.

“Should have set that on the table. Sorry.”

“No harm done,” Sherlock said, but he looked at John hungrily. The events of the afternoon were too much on his mind. 

“So, we’re trying this, once we are switched back, I mean. You and I…”

Sherlock smiled, “You didn’t seem to object this afternoon.”

“Not a bit. I’d like to. But I think for now, I had better get to bed.”

“It’s still so early, John.”

“If I don’t get out of this room, I am going to kiss you. Wouldn’t want to ruin Mrs. Turner’s work.”

Sherlock startled a bit at that, but smiled. “You should take my room. I’d rather wake up there, if it is the same to you.”

“Of course.”

John thought he might lay there awhile, thinking over the odd events, or might find it difficult to sleep in the strange bed, but no sooner had his head hit the pillow than John fell into a heavy sleep.

Sherlock sipped the tea and tried to stay awake. So much to sort through, to catalogue and store away, but soon he found his eyes slipping shut. He startled away just long enough to stumble off to John’s bed, where he slept soundly.

\---

John stretched languidly rolling out his shoulders and wrists. He gauged by the light that it was just after sunrise. Even before he opened his eyes, he felt right. He slipped on his dressing gown and walked off to the bathroom, grateful to see his own face, to brush his own teeth. Everything seemed back to normal. 

Better than, in fact.

He peeked in at Sherlock, who was beginning to stir. John wasn’t sure whether he should wake him. After a moment’s hesitation, he decided it was best not to touch until they were both fully conscious. Just in case.

Besides, he was famished. Sherlock hadn’t eaten anything much yesterday, and John’s body was quite aware of it now. 

Humming to himself, John set about making a fry up. Thank god they had some eggs. He made enough for Sherlock. Who knew if he’d eat, but he might as well try.

As he heard Sherlock get up and start the shower, John set out plates of breakfast, complete with toast and tea, and tucked in.

“I made breakfast,” John called out, putting his dishes in the sink. He sat down and began reading the paper as Sherlock walked in, toweling his hair, droplets running down his neck and over his collarbones, making John catch his breath. Sherlock’s dressing gown was barely tied. 

“Not hungry,” Sherlock murmured as he climbed into John’s lap. He caught John in a kiss, deep and slow. “Not for breakfast, anyway.”

John tangled his fingers in the curls at the nape of Sherlock’s neck and tugged gently, remembering how that had sent tingles of pleasure down his spine. Sherlock moaned into their kiss.

Sherlock in turn stroked his fingertips lightly down the side of John’s neck, making him shiver.

“Bedroom?”

“Probably more comfortable than this,” John chuckled.

They settled on Sherlock’s room. It was closer, after all. Not even over the threshold yet, John unfastened Sherlock’s dressing gown, slipping it from his shoulders, and stretched up to kiss his neck, the hollow of his throat. Sherlock braced himself against the door frame as he moaned in pleasure. 

John flicked his tongue over Sherlock’s nipples, knowing how sensitive they were. He blew across them lightly to watch them tighten and Sherlock shivered and cried out deliciously, just as John reached down, slipping his hand into Sherlock’s pants. He took him in hand, squeezing lightly. “I can’t wait to watch you come undone properly.” 

He pulled Sherlock to the bed, both shucking out of their clothes as he went. When they were stripped bare, John lay Sherlock back on the bed and pulled out a bottle of lubricant from the bedside table. 

He slicked his hand over Sherlock’s prick, circling his thumb over the sensitive head as Sherlock had shown him. It felt different from this angle, but he knew exactly what frisson of pleasure went skittering down Sherlock’s spine. Part of him wanted to bring him off this way, just watch him writhe and come, but he was eager for more. 

After slicking himself, too, John braced himself over Sherlock, kissing him as he thrust his hips, gently rubbing their pricks together. It was as good as it had felt yesterday, but so much more at home now, where they belonged.

“John,” Sherlock practically whimpered as they broke apart. “More, I need… John.” 

“What do you want Sherlock? Anything.” 

“I don’t know, John, I just... I want all of you.”

“Do you want me inside you?”

Sherlock nodded, not trusting words at first. “Yes, John…” he finally managed, looking up at him through lowered lashes and, biting his lip, added, "Please?” 

It should have been coquettish, over the top, but Sherlock was being genuine and John throbbed with desire, steeling himself for the fact he needed to wait. He wouldn’t hurt Sherlock. “It may take a bit to get you ready.” he murmured. “If you want me to stop anything, just tell me.” 

He patted Sherlock’s side. “I want you to flip over. Up on your hands and knees.”

John kneaded the globes of Sherlock’s arse and parted them. “Relax, Love,” he encouraged Sherlock as John leant forward, and licked, his tongue darting over the sensitive puckered flesh. 

Sherlock jumped at the warm wetness, his brain short-circuiting for a moment as he realized what John had done. John soothed a hand down Sherlock’s side, stilling him, and he soon relaxed into the touch. 

Sherlock let out little breathy moans, occasionally trying to speak as John opened him up with his tongue. When he was pliant, John stretched his hand under Sherlock, taking hold of his cock, hard and leaking.

As one hand stroked Sherlock, he began to slide a finger in, opening him slowly. 

“John, Please! Just do it!”

“Almost there,” John said soothingly as he added another finger. 

Sherlock let out a long, low groan and pushed back against John, fucking himself on John’s fingers.

“There, now,” John soothed, withdrawing his fingers. He rolled a condom on and moved to kneel up between Sherlock’s spread legs, gripping his hips. He lined up and pressed slowly forward, pausing as the head was fully enveloped in Sherlock’s tight heat. He stroked his hand down Sherlock’s back as he pushed in, filling Sherlock inch by inch. 

“I’ve got you,” John murmured, as he began to move. 

Sherlock arched back against John, working to find the perfect rhythm. 

The build up was fast. No matter that they tried to make it last, they needed this too much this morning. There would be plenty of time for slow and careful, for nights of drawn out passion. But for now, it was too much. Sherlock moved against him, moaning his name and John’s hips stuttered, his rhythm becoming irregular as he neared completion. 

He reached around, stroking Sherlock as he spilled inside him. It didn’t take much until Sherlock trembled around him, crying out. 

They lay, trembling in the aftershocks of pleasure. At last they were still and content together. 

John kissed Sherlock’s back. ”I quite prefer being inside you properly, like this,” John said, as he pulled out, cleaning up and binning the condom.

Sherlock picked up the pillow and threw it at John, as they dissolved into a fit of giggles.

“You just couldn’t resist, could you?”

“I waited until now, didn’t I?” John smirked, and crawled in beside Sherlock, wrapping his arms around him.

After a moment, Sherlock said, “I love you,” realizing even as he said it, that he meant it completely.

John stiffened for a moment, startled, but answered, “I love you too, Sherlock.”

They settled in, content to curl up with one another. They would have to check in with Mrs. Turner later today, and should probably see that Lestrade had sorted the subway case, but for now, they were content just where they were. Together.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments rock my world, so if you felt like leaving one, I would love it!


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